


Deep Devotion

by PrintPulse



Series: The Other Side Of Paradise [4]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Drug Use, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Multi, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 09:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13633344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrintPulse/pseuds/PrintPulse
Summary: He knows it’s fucked, but part of him worries that if she isn’t in some chem haze she won’t want him anymore. So he doesn’t give her the stuff, but he doesn’t stop her either. He lets her fall into his lap, mouth agape and eyes sharp, and holds her close. Hancock doesn’t deserve shit, as far as he’s concerned, but he’s not about to give her up until she wants to go.But something’s different this time; maybe it’s the inclusion of Deacon in their dynamic, maybe something in the water, but Hancock decides to put his foot down. He didn’t realise it would have such an impact when he did.





	Deep Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of The Other Side Of Paradise, but can be read as a stand-alone.

Ultimately, it’s a little distressing the way Jupiter changes herself, like a fleshed-out Commonwealth chameleon, depending on who she’s with. Hancock watches, gentle and easy-like from the corner of his sooty eyes, as she dances from person to person in a colour-changing parade of personalities.

With MacCready she’s soft; their friendship ringing true and innocent. They drink and laugh together, getting touchy-feely in a way that sits heavy in Hancock’s stomach- not that he’d ever admit it. He watches her press her muscled body alongside him in the hazy backroom of The Third Rail, as they both decompress at the familiarity. They share stories and secrets like lost lovers, filling each other’s soul with a wholesome brew that Hancock wouldn’t have a chance in replicating.

With Deacon she’s harder; holds up hoops and watches him jump through. Hancock would feel bad for the guy if it wasn’t what he needed. There’s desperation in Deacon’s eyes, despite his slick talking and shit-talk, that leaves him salivating like a puppy at her praise. Hancock doesn’t judge; the world needs all types. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t indulge in it too, enjoying that sick-sweet feeling when Deacon does what he asks. Jupiter likes it too, likes performing just the right version of herself that he needs. Deacon is loose-limbed like MacCready after she indulges him, and Hancock wonders when Jupiter decided she wanted to be everybody’s therapy mutt.

But with him, it’s all wrong; like Jupiter can’t put her finger on what she thinks he needs from her. Or maybe she’s just flinging herself in all directions because he _doesn’t_ need anything from her. He hates the knots that she ties herself in to please him, and goddamn if she isn’t a ghost of Deacon at his feet. He knows MacCready’s said something to her, there’s no way he hasn’t, but she still keeps knocking back ‘tats in his eye line. Hancock wants to say something, he really does, but he’s not as confident as he appears. He knows it’s fucked, but part of him worries that if she isn’t in some chem haze she won’t want him anymore. So he doesn’t give her the stuff, but he doesn’t stop her either. He lets her fall into his lap, mouth agape and eyes sharp, and holds her close. Hancock doesn’t deserve shit, as far as he’s concerned, but he’s not about to give her up until she wants to go.

But something’s different this time; maybe it’s the inclusion of Deacon in their dynamic, maybe something in the water, but Hancock decides to put his foot down. He didn’t realise it would have such an impact when he did.

 

 

It’s a sweltering, lazy, nuclear day and Jupiter is slouched on Hancock’s sofa, shining with sweat and pulling at her tank-top. Deacon is there- as he always is recently- his wig thrown to the floor and fanning them both with a worn Grognak. Hancock sighs, tapping at a too-warm Med-X before pushing it into his hardened skin with a heady exhale. Jupiter looks up, ears pricking like a cat, eyes snapping to Hancock. She sits upright, jostling Deacon and pulling out a pack of Mentats, the pills rattling like raindrops on a tin roof. Something snaps in Hancock then, a white-hot rush of annoyance through the Med-X that seems long overdue.

“Jupiter,” He barks, surprising himself at the harshness and authority in his tone. She stops, hand over the ‘tat tin, and even Deacon pauses his fanning, eyes wide. When he turns to their stilled figures, both of them frozen like a fucked-up renaissance painting, he feels the anger he had dissipate slightly,

“What are you doing, Sunshine?”

Jupiter looks like a radstag in the headlights, and he fucking hates how at odds it is with her in reality. What is it about him that makes her so tentative, that reduces a woman of such stature and power to... this?

She knows she’s caught, knows he _knows,_ but she doesn’t say anything, just lets her eyes well up with tears. Deacon looks like he wants to bolt and engulf her at the same time, but Jupiter has her leg hooked firmly through his. She wants him here, needs him, and so Deacon won’t leave. Instead he surveys the scene before him; eyes darting between them, trying to figure out how Hancock is gonna play it. And shit, now Hancock wishes he knew, too.

Hancock leans over the table between them, and the space seems to stretch on forever. He reaches and reaches, hands open and shoulders broad, until he’s crowding both Jupiter and Deacon. He outstretches his hand, like some irradiated version of Midas, and pries the tin from Jupiter’s shaking hands. She lets out a wet, shaky breath, and with his empty palm he brushes her tears from her face. He can only imagine how he appears, stood towering over them in his overcoat, their eyes gazing upwards like he’s God ghoulified.

It’s then that Hancock realises how dense he’s been – that Jupiter wasn’t trying to figure out what he needed, but was trying to show him what _she_ needed. His mouth falls open, and Hancock realises that the parts of her that echo Deacon aren’t coincidental. He is to Jupiter what Jupiter is to Deacon. The idea is ludicrous and stupid, that John fucking McDonough could be someone’s nuclear messiah, but here they are.

They all seem to hold their breath, the air is stagnant with sweat, and Hancock is sure the world has flipped, because his body is practically thrumming on the precipice of change. When he finally lowers himself gingerly to their level, Deacon’s calculating expression has slipped to one that’s almost enthralled and Jupiter’s eyes are blown wide. He places the ‘tats tin on the table, alongside the discarded Med-X , and presses a chaste kiss to Jupiter’s mouth. She softens almost instantly, something heavy lifting from her laden shoulders. Hancock turns to Deacon, sees his feathery lashes and hawk eyes before thinking, ‘fuck it’, and kisses him, too.  

‘Of the people, for the people’, after all.

 


End file.
